The Baker's Boy
by awordfitlyspoken
Summary: The reaping from Peeta's POV. Reviews appreciated!
1. The Sunset Cake

"Hey. Get up."

"Yeah, and you better hurry up. We're opening in a few minutes."

I reluctantly open my eyes, squinting through the darkness, and see the shadowy forms of my two older brothers descending the stairs. I roll back over, burying my head under my pillow, wishing desperately to just close my eyes again and be lost in a blissfully oblivious sleep. But I know I can't. The customers will be here soon. And even if they weren't, I still wouldn't be able to sleep. I tossed and turned all night. Because today is the reaping. How can I sleep with that hanging over my head, smothering me constantly?

The reaping. The thing I've been dreading for months. Today two unlucky kids from District 12 will be chosen to compete in the 74th annual Hunger Games. I swallow as the realization hits me again; in a few weeks two people that I know will be dead. And they will be chosen today. Maybe it will be one of my merchant friends. Maybe it will be someone I've seen around school. Maybe it will be me.

Maybe it will be her…

Pain rips through me as I consider the possibility. Please don't let it be her, I pray silently. Not Katniss.

I lie there, feeling utterly useless, unable to stop anything. All I can do is hope that when whoever was chosen from District 12 died, they will die in the most quick and painless way possible, and that their families will be comforted. That they will know that their brother...or son…or cousin…is in a better place. Which I am sure of. Any place would be better than this one. What is there to hope for in District 12? It's a place where innocent people slowly starve to death, while the grotesquely-dyed people of the Capitol gorge themselves and then surgically alter their bodies so it doesn't show. Where men go into the coal mines strong and able-bodied, and come out with lost limbs and weak lungs. Where kids go to school to learn about the Capitol's infinite goodness, and come home to another endless night in grimy shack coated in coal dust, with their empty stomachs aching. I see it everywhere, and it haunts me constantly. And now, on reaping day, another thought haunts me: a pale, lifeless corpse with a dark braid and gray eyes frozen wide...

"PEETA MELLARK!"

I am jolted out of my reverie by the shrill voice of my mother. She pokes her head through the doorway, frizzy hair flying around her red face.

"WHAT are you STILL doing in bed at this hour, boy? It's nearly opening time! On reaping day, too! You know how busy we are on reaping day! Get your worthless backside down to the kitchen at once, or you'll feel the back of THIS across your face!" she shrieks, brandishing a large wooden spoon. She raps me hard on the head for good measure before huffing out of the room and down the stairs to the bakery. I rub the spot gingerly, detecting a small lump forming there under my hair. It doesn't really matter, though. I'm pretty used to it by now. My mother hits me all the time. She thinks I'm useless, and she doesn't hesitate to let me know. When I won second place in the school wrestling championship, she doted over my brother, Jared, who won first place. Then as congratulations to me she merely said, "Oh, so you get a trophy for all those bruises, do you?"

Rolling my eyes at the memory, I hurriedly splash some cold water on my face, brush my teeth, and throw on some clothes, and then sprint down the stairs before my mother comes up to scream at me again.

* * *

Downstairs, I find the rest of my family already serving the first few customers of the day. My two older brothers are wrapping up loaves of soft bread for a curly-headed mother with a silent young boy at her heels and an ecstatic toddler on her hip.

"We get bread! Good bread!" he informs me, grinning.

I smile back warmly. "Yes, you do! It's fresh; I think you'll like it. Here, try some," I say, deftly slicing a nearby loaf and handing it to the small child. He laughs excitedly and stuffs the fluffy bread into his mouth.

"Do you like it?" I ask him.

"Yup! It's nummy!" he squeaks happily through his mouthful. I laugh and ruffle his unruly hair.

"Thank you for stopping by today," I hear my father tell a retreating customer cheerfully. His smile is natural and warm, and the kindness in his eyes is evident. People tell me that I look like him, with his ash-blond hair, blue eyes, and stocky build, but I don't think anyone could ever have the same look of genuine compassion as my father does. He's a quiet, soft-spoken person, but when he enters a room, the affect is immediate. Sometimes, actually, all the time, I wonder how my dad ended up with my grouchy mom.

My father turns to the mother, who now has the packages my brothers wrapped for her tucked under her arm. When he catches sight of the downcast eyes of the young boy standing beside her, his smile fades.

"First reaping?" he asks quietly, with sympathy in his voice. The mother glances at her son and nods slightly, worry creasing her brow.

My father picks up the rest of the loaf that I had sliced for the little boy and slides it into a paper bag, offering it to the mother with a sad smile.

The woman accepts it gratefully, whispering, "Thank you." At the sight of the extra bread, the young boy's face brightens. As he and his family leave the store, I hear him exclaim happily, "We'll have a feast tonight!"

I smile sadly after them. My family is one of the few families that actually gets something decent to eat every night. It's not the best; we keep all of the good stuff to sell in the bakery, but if something's stale scorched but is still good enough to eat, we keep it for dinner. Most of the poor people from the Seam coming in here today probably haven't had real bakery bread in a long time. They just want something good to eat today to get their minds off of the anxiety of the situation. And to make what may be their last meal together as a family a good one.

Just then, the bell above the shop's door goes off. I look up to see a boy a few years older than me with a couple dead squirrels swinging by their tails from his belt. He's tall, strong, and handsome, with dark hair, tan skin, and solid muscles from all of his years hunting in the woods with Katniss. And he's pretty much the last person I want to see right now.

It's Gale. Katniss's…the only word that comes to my mind is boyfriend. I smile politely to hide the pang of jealousy that shoots through me.

"Good morning. What can I do for you?" My smile is plastered on my face.

He smiles back, a little coldly. Of course. I'm a bratty merchant's kid with plenty to eat and only five drawings in the reaping. Whereas he, living in the Seam, has little to eat other than what he can hunt, and has no doubt had to sign up for tesserae. Something cold seeps through my veins as I remember that Katniss has signed up for tesserae, too...

"I brought something to trade," Gale says. His gray eyes sweep the room, checking to make sure that my witch of a mother isn't around. He detaches a squirrel and places it on the counter. My father crosses over to us, examining the squirrel. I can tell right away that it's Gale's catch, not Katniss's. Her skills with a bow always produce a clean shot through the eye, the arrow never piercing the body. Gale's trade offer, while not a bad catch, definitely doesn't have that quality.

My father finishes his assessment and then offers Gale a fresh loaf of bread in exchange for one squirrel. Gale grins, clearly not expecting such a good trade.

"Good luck today," my father tells Gale as he hands him the loaf.

"Thanks," Gale replies. He gives me a stiff nod, and then departs back into the morning darkness. I stare after him, trying to sort out my thoughts. Why do I feel so bitter towards Gale? He's a good guy, but every time I see him I feel that stupid spiteful jealousy and have to put on my polite face.

I don't have any more time to think about it, though, because now my mother's wretched spoon has found its way back to me. "Wake up, boy!"

* * *

I decide to go to the back room to make more bread. Away from the clamor of the customers. We're running low anyway. As I turn, I see a few small children with their noses pressed to the glass of our display window, exclaiming in wonder. With a pleased smile I notice that they are admiring the cakes I frosted last night in honor of reaping day. Well, not that reaping day is anything to honor, but we get more business at reaping time, so my father suggested that I make a few new cakes for the display window. I spent hours doing the three cakes in the window: painstakingly mixing the frosting and food dye until it was the exact color I needed, spreading it evenly over the entire cake, and carefully forming the delicate flowers and designs in the places they would look the best. My favorite is the one in the center. I mixed and mixed the frosting until I got the perfect shade: an orange that seems to glow like the setting sun.

When my father saw the finished cakes, he whispered, "They're beautiful, Peeta." My mother just sniffed, "Hopefully they'll sell. Honestly, you'd think a boy would find a better hobby than frosting cakes. No wonder you've never had a girlfriend."

I had to clench my teeth together to prevent myself from making a retort. What would that get me? A smack across the face. After my mother left the room, my dad sighed and then looked at me sympathetically.

"Don't believe a word of it, Peeta," he said. "You're an artist. And frosting cakes is the only way you get to show it."

I was a little surprised. Usually my father has so few words. But not then.

"Just remember that's there's nothing to be ashamed of about being yourself," my dad continued. "Besides, who doesn't like cake?" he grinned, and it was so contagious that I grinned too.

"And Peeta?"

"What?"

"…don't listen to the other thing she said either. You're a handsome, strong, talented young man. And you have a heart of gold. You could have any girl you wanted."

I looked down, feeling my cheeks flush red. When I looked up again, my dad was staring into my eyes.

"I've seen the way you look at her, son. From the moment I pointed her out to you, I knew you would be as spellbound as I was."

That time I was looking up when I blushed. My dad gave me a small smile.

"Don't make the same mistakes I did, son."

And then he was gone, and I was left alone, gazing at my glowing sunset cake.

* * *

Lost in thought, I continue kneading the dough I just made and then cover it with a towel to let it rise. Then I go back out to help my brothers deal with the customers.

A few more hours pass like this: bake, sell, bake, sell, until finally the customers disperse and it's time to get ready for the reaping. Now my father's smile doesn't seem as natural as it usually does.

I slowly climb the stairs to my tiny bedroom, trying not to think about what was going to happen in a mere half hour. I pull off my apron and dress in something clean that doesn't have flour on it. I splash some cool water on my face again, run my fingers through my hair, and slowly descend the stairs again.

My father is already waiting by the door. Soon my brothers and mother come down, too, and I'm a little surprised that she doesn't even speak.

"Shall we?" my father asks grimly.

* * *

We arrive at the town square, which is already pretty crowded with citizens and cameramen alike. As we sign in, I spot the roped-off area of the possible tributes, and turn to go to stand with the rest of the sixteen-year-olds. Before I leave, my father squeezes my shoulder and gives me a reassuring smile.

The sixteens in my group are mostly silent. A few acknowledge me with a grave nod and then go back to their solemn absorptions.

I catch sight of Katniss at the other end of the group. She's wearing a pretty blue dress that compliments her olive skin, and she is beautiful. Her dark hair is coiled up on her head in a long, silky braid. She stares steadily towards the stage in the center of the square, her stormy gray eyes determined.

I look towards the stage, too. There are three chairs lined up behind the podium. On either side of the podium are the two large, glass bowls that will determine the awful fate of one boy and one girl from District 12. The tall, balding mayor of our district, Mayor Undersee, sits in one of the chairs and carries on a whispered conversion with Effie Trinket, District 12's Capitol escort. Effie is sporting a minty green suit, a ridiculous pink wig, and an animated grin that makes me clench my fists. Capitol people.

The mayor glances worriedly at the empty seat, which no doubt is reserved for Haymitch Abernathy, District 12's only living Hunger Games victor. Then the clock strikes two, and he rises to take his place at the podium, beginning the same speech he is forced to present every year. About the history of Panem and how much we owe the Capitol and what an honor it is to compete in the Games and blah, blah, blah. I hate how the Capitol forces us to act like the Hunger Games are a celebration. Like watching our friends and family be murdered by other kids, or starve to death, or freeze, or be torn about by ravenous wild animals, is entertainment.

I hate it.

I hear some sort of clamor up on the stage and I look up just in time to see Haymitch drunkenly tottering over to his reserved seat, collapsing into it and bellowing incomprehensibly. He confusedly tries to give Effie Trinket a hug, and her horrible wig is knocked sideways.

Effie, trying to straighten her wig, stands up at the podium and brightly warbles "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" like she does every year in her annoying, lilting Capitol accent. She chatters with worthless thanks and I tune her out, mostly watching Katniss out of the corner of my eye, before finally, it's time.

"Ladies first!" Effie chirps. She canters over to the girls' bowl and reaches in. The crowd is silent. Waiting. The sound of Effie's brightly-colored fingernails clawing around in the bowl echoes through the square. I offer up a silent prayer. Please don't let it be Katniss. Not Katniss. Not her…

After an eternity, Effie straightens, clutching a slip of paper. She clears her throat and reads in a loud voice: "Primrose Everdeen."

I almost utter a sigh of relief…it's not Katniss…until the last name registers in my mind. Everdeen. Katniss's last name. It's not her.

It's her little sister.


	2. The Volunteer

The realization hits me like a punch in the gut during one of my wrestling matches. Across the crowd of sixteens, I see Katniss having a similar reaction. Stunned, she begins to slump downward so that the boy next to her has to clutch her arm to support her.

No…it can't be right…is has to be a mistake…

But it's not a mistake. In a daze I watch as little Primrose, tiny, frail, and innocent, makes her way up to the stage. Eyes wide, pale as a sheet, fingers squeezed into fists. She couldn't be more than twelve. This is probably her first reaping. And I know Katniss would never in a million years let her sign up for tesserae. So she could have only had one slip of paper put in the drawing. One small, insignificant slip among a sea of slips. The slightest chance anyone could have. And still she was chosen.

The crowd is groaning gloomily. No one thinks it's fair when a twelve-year-old gets chosen. But through the murmuring din I hear one frantic voice rise above the others.

"Prim!" The strange, tortured wail seems alien coming from Katniss. She is usually so calm, so strong. She stumbles up to the stage, the crowd parting so that she can pass, and plants herself in front of her sister.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" she chokes out.

A second punch in the gut. No…

I am frozen in place. The crowd has gone silent. Katniss stands stock still. No one has volunteered to take a tribute's place in District 12 for so long that the shock of the moment causes temporary confusion. Effie Trinket babbles something about introducing the chosen tribute and then asking for volunteers, but Mayor Undersee interrupts her.

"What does it matter?" he says gruffly, with sadness in his voice. "What does it matter? Let her come forward."

No! Don't let her! I shout inside my head. But she is already mounting the stage while her little sister screams, true, anguishing, screams and pulls uselessly on Katniss's sleeves. Katniss tries to tug away, her expression hard, her voice cold. Gale materializes from the crowd and effortlessly plucks a writhing Prim off the ground. He murmurs something to Katniss, and when he turns back into the crowd, the pain in his eyes is plain.

Katniss bravely ascends the stairs, head held high. Effie prattles excitedly. "That's the spirit of the Games!"

I clench my teeth. I loathe her.

Now Effie is asking Katniss her name. Katniss answers loud and clear, but it's easy to see that she's fighting to keep her voice even.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we?" Now Effie is asking us all to applaud for our newest tribute. And not one of us does.

Effie peers out across the crowd nervously. We stare back at her, and the silence is a roar. With our silence, we are voicing our disproval. We do not think this is right. And we refuse to pretend to support it.

Now I am aware that the people around me are doing something else. Far different from applauding. They are pressing their three middle fingers to their lips and then extending their hands out to Katniss. It's a salute of the greatest solemnity. It's only occasionally used in our district, usually at funerals. To say goodbye. As an expression of love. And thanks. And respect. Without a second thought, I press my fingers to my lips and repeat the gesture, wordlessly saying all the things I never said to her, never had the courage to voice.

Suddenly, Haymitch drunkenly stumbles up to Katniss, throwing his arm around her and shouting stupidly. I can just imagine how his breath smells. Then he points directly to a camera and tumbles off the stage, out cold.

As Haymitch is heaved onto a stretcher, Effie Trinket is trying to straighten her crooked wig and regain our attention at the same time. She announces that it's time to choose the boy tribute. She plunges one hand into the boys' bowl with the other hand on her wig and quickly snatches a slip of paper at random.

"Peeta Mellark!"


	3. The Girl with the Dead Eyes

This time the punch in my gut flips my stomach over. My eyes widen in shock. I feel a little queasy. This day was the farthest thing from what I was expecting. Prim chosen. Katniss volunteering. And now the death sentence is mine to share.

Somehow I wake up enough to realize that my feet are moving towards the stage. The crowd automatically splits so that I can walk through. I pass them all in a haze. I feel like I'm on autopilot; I'm steadily walking closer and closer to the stage without telling myself to. I climb the steps, trying to compose my expression, and then I'm standing next to Effie Trinket while every eye in District 12 is trained on me.

"Wonderful!" Effie squeaks. "Now, are there any volunteers for this young man?"

I know before she even asks that there won't be. I have friends, people that love me, but on reaping day it doesn't matter. No one feels that friendship anymore when it's their helpless friend up on the stage, pleading with their eyes for someone to take their place…anyone…

I don't even look at my brothers, who I know are standing silently, heads bowed, even though Myron is still young enough to volunteer. I just stare straight ahead as the mayor beings to read Treaty of Treason. As he plows through the long, dry speech, I feel Katniss's eyes on me. She's looking at me, but I can tell that she doesn't see me. She's seeing something else, far away…does she remember?

* * *

I was eleven years old. It was a miserable afternoon with bitingly cold rain coming down in torrents, turning the lane outside the bakery into a river of muck. But inside the bakery, it was cozy and warm. And busy. On rainy days, since no customer wanted to get drenched on the way and come home with soggy wet bread, we always made as many baked goods as we could. It was a restock-the-shelves-while-we-can kind of day. We had opened the door of the back room because with all of the ovens going at once, it had gotten uncomfortably hot. I was lost in a trance, listening to the roar of the icy rain outside, feeling the cool breezes that ran through the kitchen dance across my skin, play with my hair. My hands worked on their own; stirring batters, kneading dough, greasing pans. I'd done it so many times it was like second nature to me. So through all the bustle of the kitchen, I was in a peaceful state.

But I was roughly jerked out of my tranquil oblivion by the piercing shrieks of my mother. I waited for something to slam into my head, but then I realized it wasn't me she was screaming at; it was someone outside.

"Do you want me to call the Peacekeepers on you?!" my mother was screeching. "I am so sick of you brats from the Seam pawing through my trash. Just GET OUT, you filthy thief!"

I peered out around my mother, and what I saw made my stomach plunge to the floor.

It was Katniss. But not the spirited Katniss I had seen all my life. She was like a broken mare. Lifeless. Defeated. Her shoulders were hunched. Icy rainwater streamed down her hair and worn clothing. Her face was shadowy and gaunt, and she was thin, so thin. I was almost sure I could break her like a toothpick. But it was the look in her eyes that was the worst. It was a gut-wrenching, heart-breaking look. Dead. Hopeless.

In horror I wondered what caused the drastic change. But then I remembered that her father had just been killed in a mine explosion. I had watched her accept the medal of valor on his behalf. And now look at what had happened to her.

My mother was still yelling. In amazement I realized just how heartless she was. Not even willing to toss a scrap to a starving girl who had just lost her father. Each new insult pouring from my cruel mother's mouth was like a slap across the face for Katniss. She flinched at the ugly words, slowly replacing the bin's lid and retreating back into the rain. My mother barked a few more hateful words and then turned, still grumbling, back into the kitchen. I watched from the doorway as Katniss slowly trudged through the sludge to our scrawny apple tree. Her knees shook, and she sunk down pitifully into the mud under the tree.

I knew there was only one thing I could do. I could never forgive myself if I went back into my cozy bakery, surrounded by the luscious aroma of baking bread, and let Katniss Everdeen starve. I decided I would give her some bread. I knew my mother would send me to the community home for orphans or something if she caught me sneaking good bread to Katniss. So I figured that the only bread I could give her would have to be unfit to sell. I grabbed two loaves of bread, the kind with raisins and nuts, bread that I knew could fill an empty stomach. Then, walking toward the oven, I pretended to trip and sent the loaves sailing into the open flames, knowing full well what would happen next. Before I could even blink an eye, my mother had whisked the scorched loaves out of the fire and was descending on me with a blaze in her eyes that was hotter than the one I'd just sent the bread into.

"LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE, YOU WRETCHED SCUM!"

I saw the wooden spoon swooping out of nowhere. It collided with my cheekbone with a force that caused me to stumble backwards. I could feel a red weal blooming on my cheek already. I couldn't help crying out, my eyes watering with the pain.

My mother shoved me harshly out the door with the blackened loaves burning in my hands. "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!"

It only took a matter of seconds for the rain to drench me entirely. I felt like the freezing water was soaking into my very bones. I shivered, feeling sorrier than ever for Katniss, still slumped under the apple tree. The rain pelted my injured cheek without mercy. I sluggishly made my way to the pig pen by the tree. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Katniss's head snap up, surprised to find that she's not alone out here in the rain. I could feel her gaze on me, on my bruised face, on the tantalizing bread. I didn't look at her. Just ripped off pieces of bread and tossed them into the pig trough. Then I chanced a glance back toward the open bakery door, where the yellow light flooded into the stormy semidarkness, looking for my mother's beady eyes squinting suspiciously at me. But she wasn't there. So, my eyes back on the pig pen, I quickly flung first one, then both of the loaves to Katniss, heard them splash into the mud at her feet. Then I quietly turned my back on her and waded back through the swampy mire.

Back in the warmth of the bakery, I shut the door firmly against the cold wetness. I stand by the flames, trying to work some feeling back into my numb fingers, feeling agonizingly selfish that I have this warm fire and Katniss doesn't.

The next day, I woke up to find that my cheek had swollen, and a dark purple bruise had blossomed on my eye overnight. At school, my friends weren't surprised to see the state of my face. They used to ask me what had happened with concerned expressions, but that day they just looked at the bruise grimly and said, "That one's gonna take a while to heal."

After school that day, in the courtyard, I found myself gazing at Katniss. The hopeless slump was gone. She was standing tall, strong and brave, firmly clasping Prim's hand. Our eyes met, and I saw that the empty look in hers was gone, replaced with a determination I had never seen there before. She took in my swollen face, and then lowered her gray eyes. I didn't go over and talk to her. I never did. Never once did I work up the courage to speak to Katniss Everdeen. But I couldn't help from letting my eyes follow her at school sometimes. And as soon as she looked up, I looked away. I was weak and unsure.

But soon, I will have to face Katniss in the arena. And I know I will never be able to hurt her in any way. I realize that I have to leave that former insecurity behind. I have to be strong. For Katniss.

The mayor gives his closing remarks and gestures for Katniss and me to shake hands. As I grip her hand, slender, yet strong, in my own, I realize that this is the first time I've ever had physical contact with her. I look straight into the gray eyes I know so well and give Katniss's hand a quick squeeze. I try without words to reassure her. To tell her to not give up just yet.


End file.
